Patriot's Farewell

by Bobby Akart

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. President!” said Art Peabody cheerfully as he raised his glass. Peabody was Sarge’s strongest ally, although he was far less influential than Walter Cabot, because of his age, or Gardner Lowell, because of his assertiveness. Sarge was the youngest of the Brahmin, as he was younger than Gardner.

  “Cheers!” said Endicott. The group raised their glasses once again and toasted one another.

  “Please, everyone, take a seat and get comfortable. I have a couple of things to talk about and then we can open up the floor.”

  The men all took a seat except Gardner, who intentionally waited for Sarge to sit so he could position himself directly across the room. Sarge, who was not intimidated, continued.

  “I only have eight weeks left in office. Traditionally, with Congress in recess, things are pretty quiet around Washington. The media turns its attention to the transition team and the plans the new president has for his administration. Oftentimes, the lame-duck president will return home or go on an extended vacation with his family. I have other plans.”

  “Like what, Sarge?” asked Cabot.

  Cabot was never one of Sarge’s enemies. He was very close to John Morgan and wholeheartedly supported the appointment of Sarge to head the executive council that fall of 2016. However, with Sarge focusing on his duties as president, Cabot was susceptible to a constant barrage of criticism of Sarge by Gardner. And as Sarge had just learned during the argument between Win and Gardner’s grandson, his adversary no longer made any attempt to hide his feelings.

  “Those of you on the executive council have various business interests that are closely intertwined with Washington. From shipbuilding to military armature, we all rely upon government contracts to enrich our companies and our families. As has been the case for years, the members of the executive council represent a who’s who in the so-called military-industrial complex. While the goods and services we supply are often vilified in the media, it’s the nature of what we do that allows Americans to sleep at night.”

  “Well said, Sarge,” said Samuel Bradlee, a former Secretary of Defense and a direct descendant of Nathaniel Bradlee—one of the key participants in the Boston Tea Party. He was very well regarded among the group and was Brad’s uncle. “I don’t think any of us have issue with your direction over the years.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Sarge. “In my last weeks in office, I will be doing much more as my administration flies under the media radar. From rarely used executive orders to new government contracts, I will set the tone for enhanced wealth for all of you for generations.”

  “This is why I was thrilled at Sarge’s ability to take the highest office in the land,” said Cabot proudly.

  Sarge smiled and nodded his thanks as he took another long draw off his cigar. “Other members of the Boston Brahmin, who are not in this room, rely upon my stewardship regarding wealth opportunities in the health care, financial, and manufacturing sectors. They will benefit as well from these executive actions.”

  “I have to ask,” Gardner interrupted. “You’ve had eight years in office to do these great things of which you speak, why didn’t you? Perhaps we could have benefitted greatly for years, rather than the last two months.”

  Sarge bristled at the implication he had failed to adequately help the Boston Brahmin during his years as president. “Well, Gardner, every action I took in the White House was under a microscope. It’s a job that requires finesse, not the arrogant wielding of power. While you might see my assistance as insignificant or miniscule, I can assure you the bottom lines of everyone in this room, including the Lowell family, have expanded greatly.”

  “No doubt the others agree with you, Mr. President,” said Gardner sarcastically, emphasizing Sarge’s title. “Frankly, I saw a number of missed opportunities over the years and elected to hold my tongue—out of respect.”

  Sarge could see that the members of the executive council were growing uncomfortable with the exchange. He couldn’t decide whether to turn Gardner’s arrogant hostility back on him or not. Just as Sarge was about to respond, Morrell knocked on the door and poked his head inside.

  “Mr. President, I’m sorry for the interruption. I’m afraid it’s urgent, sir.”

  Sarge stood and put out his cigar. “Gentlemen, I suspect I’m needed in the Situation Room, Please stay here and enjoy the cigars and the bar. I’ll rejoin the conversation as quickly as I can.”

  Sarge managed a sly grin at Gardner, buttoned his jacket, and strode out of the room. I’ll be back to deal with you in due time. Count on it.

  Chapter 77

  1:45 p.m. ET

  Xindian District

  Taipei City, Taiwan

  “Grenade!” yelled Drew as he launched himself into the bedroom and over the back side of the king-size bed. The small distinctly spherical steel body bounded between Drew and Santa and landed in the grass outside the door. Santa fell to the floor and rolled behind the exterior wall while covering his head. The explosion of the fragmentation grenade outside the residence was deafening, causing the doors to be blown off the hinges and the door frame to splinter.

  Santa quickly recovered from the blast and rolled into a crouch next to the back wall of the bedroom. Drew emerged from behind the bed, which was now covered with debris. His survival instinct kicked in and with it, years of experience and training.

  Drew focused on the door’s opening. Whoever threw that grenade would be peering around the corner to observe his handiwork. Drew had something for him.

  Seconds later, a head emerged to sneak a peek at the damage. He was rewarded with a perfectly placed bullet in his right eye. The man stood as if suspended in animation, pieces of skull and brain matter sprayed on the hallway behind him as Drew’s bullet tore through the back of his head. Then he fell to the floor in a heap.

  “Moving,” Drew said to his partner as the dust and debris began to settle to the floor. His focus was now twofold—find the ambassador and stay alive. He moved deeper into the house, carefully finding his way down a dark hallway toward the sound of gunfire.

  Now he felt a sense of urgency. They were not located in one of the locations of Taiwan under siege by demonstrators, where gunshots and violence might have been the norm for several nights. This was a fairly upscale neighborhood where even suppressed weapons might be heard.

  Between the heated gun battle outside, and now the explosion from the grenade, the Taiwanese military was likely to arrive at any time. Based upon what they had learned about Matsu and his potential involvement in the kidnapping, Drew couldn’t count on the military being friendly to his operation. He had to work fast.

  Santa slapped Drew on the back and the two continued until they reached a stairway leading to a basement location. On a hunch based upon experience, Drew worked his way down the dark staircase. He instructed Santa to remain at the top of the stairs to watch his back.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a simple wooden door blocked his advance. He tried the knob, but it was locked. Most likely, this was the only way in or out of the basement. He hesitated for a moment as he quickly processed the possibilities. What’s gonna greet me on the other side of this door?

  Slowing his breathing, he pressed his back against the wall and listened. He couldn’t hear anyone on the other side of the door, but he didn’t need to. He was an assassin. He hunted others. They didn’t hunt him. Drew Jackson was unafraid to enter any room because he knew his skills could take down any threats he faced.

  He stepped back up two of the stairs and pointed his rifle at the door’s deadbolt lock. With three quick volleys, the door was opened and a faint light illuminated his surroundings. A dark, musty basement greeted him except for the glow of the light from underneath another door.

  The sound of gunfire and shuffling feet could be heard above him. Instinctively, he looked up the stairs to determine Santa’s position. He was lying prone at the top of the stairs, firing his weapon toward the back of the house.

  Drew
doubted he still had the element of surprise on his side as he approached the light. Then he saw the shadows of feet blocking some of the light. Drew approached slowly, steadying his weapon as he debated whether to shoot the person behind the door.

  But he knew he couldn’t. If it was the ambassador, he’d never be able to live with the mistake. If he shot at the hinges, a guard on the other side might panic and shoot McBride. Drew weighed his options and opted for the bull rush.

  He set his rifle aside and drew his sidearm. Drew took a deep breath and waited for the feet to stop in front of the door. Then he charged, lowered his shoulder and crashed through the door, knocking the person on the other side to the floor.

  Drew lost his weapon as he tangled with the man. The guard pulled himself free of the wreckage caused by Drew and scrambled for his own weapon, which lay just out of reach.

  Using his quick reflexes, Drew pulled his knife out of its sheath and brought it down hard on the man’s wrist, causing him to scream in pain. With a twist, Drew withdrew the knife and forced it into the man’s rib cage, which produced a gush of blood from the guard’s chest, but it did not immediately produce his death. With one more effort, Drew closed in, yanked the knife out of the man’s ribs and thrust it into his heart, ending the fight.

  He scrambled to retrieve his gun and rolled against a wall to address any more threats. This part of the fight was over while the battle raged on upstairs.

  “Ambassador McBride, are you here?”

  “Yes, please help me,” a man groaned from a dark corner of the room. Drew made his way to the voice and found the ambassador locked in a metal box. Using his knife, he pried the lock and clasp loose and the front popped open.

  “Ambassador McBride, I’m Drew Jackson—Judge and Janie’s son.”

  “Drew? I knew you when you were just a kid. Thank God, young man. Thank God for you.”

  “We’re not quite out of the woods yet, sir. Are you ready for this? ’Cause we’ve still got some work to do.”

  Drew helped the older man to his feet. Ambassador McBride was still wobbly but managed to find the strength.

  “Let me tell you something, Drew. It’s like they say, I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”

  “I heard that, sir,” said Drew with a chuckle. “Can you handle a weapon?”

  “I’m a country boy, young man,” he replied. “Trust me, I’m so danged mad. Why don’t you let me lead the way?”

  Drew laughed and reached down to take the guard’s nine millimeter. “Here you go, but I’ll lead the way. Fair enough?”

  “Fine, but I’m ready. Don’t you worry.”

  Drew noticed the gunfire begin to die down. Another body sounded like it collapsed on the floor above them, causing dust to rain down on their heads.

  “Control, Alpha One. Over.”

  “Go ahead, Alpha One.”

  “Positive contact on Golden Retriever. Repeat, positive contact on Golden Retriever.”

  “Roger that, Alpha One. POTUS says well done.”

  Before Drew could acknowledge the last transmission, he heard King’s booming baritone voice reverberate off the walls.

  “All clear. All hostiles KIA. All clear.”

  Santa ran down the stairs as Drew and the ambassador made their way through the doorway. “Hey, we’re all clear.”

  “Yeah, I heard the bullhorn.” Drew laughed, referring to King’s deep voice. In the distance, now that the gunfire had died down, Drew could hear the sounds of sirens. “I think we’ve probably overstayed our welcome, boys. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Roger that,” replied Santa, who immediately hustled back up the stairs.

  “Control, Alpha One. Please advise on extraction point. Over.”

  “Point of origin, Alpha One.”

  “Roger that, Control. Send my regards to POTUS and the VEEP.”

  Chapter 78

  2:00 p.m.

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Sarge and Brad were still hyped up from watching the assault on Ambassador McBride’s captors as they entered the Oval Office. The entire thirty-six minutes played out on the monitors in the Situation Room through the lenses of the body cams on the Elite Eight.

  As Drew and Santa began their move into the building, Sarge’s eyes had darted between the gun battles taking place outside the house and video feed showing the catlike moves of the two operatives as they made their entry. It wasn’t until the grenade exploded near the men that the danger associated with Drew’s job struck home.

  Afterwards, he pulled Brad and Donald aside and told them not to mention the grenade blast to Abbie. It wasn’t their place to provide details of a mission to her when Drew was involved.

  “Brad, I know you need to get back downstairs,” Sarge began as he resumed his signature pacing routine. The Great Seal on the floor of the Oval Office couldn’t withstand another four years of President Henry Sargent’s foot traffic. “Both carrier strike groups are in position, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Battle ready?”

  “You betcha, Mr. President. So are the Virginia-class submarines. They’re awaiting my orders to show themselves in the middle of the Taiwan Straits.”

  “What’s your opinion of the Chinese troops’ positioning?”

  “Sarge, they’re poised to strike. Now, our recovery of McBride may or may not impact their plans. There are a lot of things we don’t know.”

  Sarge gestured for Brad to join him on the sofa. They made their way to sit when Donald returned with Abbie. She moved as fast as her pregnant belly would allow toward Sarge and Brad to provide them hugs of gratitude.

  Wiping away her tears of relief and happiness, she said, “Thank you for not getting my husband killed on Thanksgiving.”

  “Abbie, I have to say, I’ve never seen anything like it. You can thank Drew for his coming home in one piece. The guy has an incredible sixth sense, an awareness, which enables him to anticipate what his adversaries have planned. We are very proud of him.”

  “Thanks for saying that, Sarge. I feel better.”

  “Now, that said,” Sarge continued. “If I thought it was possible to tie him to a desk job at Aegis or even at 73 Tremont with me, I’d do it. But, frankly, he’d break free and then I’d fear for my life!”

  The group joined Sarge in laughter as they released the tension caused by the entire affair. Sarge gestured for everyone to sit.

  “Guys, the day isn’t over yet,” Sarge continued. “We’ve been closely monitoring the PLA’s troop and equipment movements on Mainland China. Their intentions are obvious. Now, we need to gauge their seriousness. Brad, please summarize Beijing’s plan for the invasion of Taiwan.”

  “The Chinese invasion threat has existed for years and has been war-gamed by their top military strategists with multiple scenarios. We believe they’re in the early stages of their plan by using asymmetric warfare in the form of cyber attacks on the power grid in addition to destabilizing the Taiwan government through social unrest.”

  Abbie nodded in agreement. “Beijing has been using nonlethal means for years against Taiwan. Psychological, diplomatic, propaganda and informational warfare can all play a part in the undermining of confidence in the Taipei government. These orchestrated demonstrations seem to be the culmination of their efforts.”

  “Yes,” added Sarge. “The cyber attack on the power grid cut the government off at the knees because half the country thought the administration should have embraced nuclear power as an electricity source and Taipei refused.”

  “How did the abduction of the ambassador come into play?” asked Abbie.

  “This is still a mystery, but my guess is they would use him as a bargaining chip to force us to stand down during the assault,” said Sarge.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense except we wouldn’t stand down,” said Brad.

  “That’s right,” said Sarge. He took a deep breath before
asking Brad to continue. “Brad, the next logical step for the PLA is a missile attack, am I right?”

  “Yes. The PLA would launch a preemptive missile strike directed at key military installations on Taiwan. This would be followed by an air blockade preventing the Taiwanese air defenses from engaging the amphibious beach landing with nearly a hundred thousand troops led by the Flying Dragons.”

  “Can our jets from the carriers counteract this?” asked Abbie.

  Brad nodded and replied, “For a while until we can bring more fighters into the region. Make no mistake, this may have started as an invasion of Taiwan, but it will look like a massive naval and air battle between two major military powers.”

  “What about their missile attacks? How do we stop those?”

  “A nuclear deterrent—our two Virginia-class subs, which are waiting for my orders to show themselves.”

  Sarge stood and walked toward his desk. Donald, Abbie, and Brad stopped talking. It was time for Sarge to make another decision. The Communist government in Beijing would be incensed that the United States had parked two nuclear-capable submarines barely fifty miles off their coast. With the press of the nuclear button, Sarge could annihilate Beijing and twenty-five million people in minutes.

  “You know, if China parked a couple of nuclear subs fifty miles off Miami Beach, I’d be out-of-my-mind pissed off. By the same token, we’re not amassing troops to invade Cuba.”

  “Been there and done that,” mumbled Donald.

  “That’s right,” continued Sarge. He leaned back against his desk and looked into the eyes of his most trusted friends within the administration. “We have an obligation to Taiwan and the rest of the world to push back against bullies. Brad, once I give the order, how long will it take the subs to surface?”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes,” replied Brad.

  “How long until they’re seen by PLA intelligence?”

  “They’ll be in full view not later than thirty minutes from now, and the phones will be ringing off the hook in Beijing.”